


Flower in the Cobblestone

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CW: Primrose, Darius Do Not Interact, Drama, F/F, Found Family, Gen, None of the archive warnings are like EXPLICIT in this fic but its uh., Primrose and Therion are Best Friends, Read at Your Own Risk, Yusufa Lives, but keep that in mind, its definitely present., its not written and its never gonna be, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: Primrose is thirteen when her father dies. As luck would have it, she's also thirteen when she runs into a pair of thieves and ends up in the same jail cell, completely by accident. But sometimes, life ends up giving you exactly what you need, even if you think it's just messing with you, and in Primrose's case, it's Therion and Darius.Or: Primrose becomes a thief instead of going directly to Sunshade, and things are changed accordingly.





	Flower in the Cobblestone

**Author's Note:**

> i was thinking abt this au on twitter a couple months back and now its here. i know i just finished a big octopath fic but like, it's been a month, so i can start a new big octopath fic, right? right

Primrose is thirteen when she watches her father die.  
  
It's not graceful. It's not peaceful. It's slow and agonizing and undignified. She can hear him groaning and sputtering and gurgling on blood filling his lungs in the long moments that feel like hours. She sees the twitching and trembling from her position under his desk. Primrose hides, not daring to move, barely breathing, even long after the three men with the three crow marks have left.  
  
She's not sure when she decides that she's going to kill them back, but she knows that it's sudden. And yet, despite knowing that she hardly thought about it, it feels right. The desire for vengeance burns deep in her chest like embers that have just been stoked into a roaring flame, and all at once, she understands what her father meant when he talked about a reason for being.  
  
It's funny, really, how literal it'll be.  
  
She leaves to find them, following a lead on a crumpled scrap of parchment, with what she could think of she might need all stuffed into her school bag. Her map is the back page of her geography textbook that she tore out. She steals a lantern and a waterskin and some apples from the kitchen, scrounges up all the pocket money she can find, ties her bootlaces tight, and puts on an extra sweater. She grips her dagger tight, rubbing her thumb over the rose in the pommel. _Faith shall be your shield._  
  


* * *

  
  
Orsterra is big, and Primrose has short legs.  
   
But if there's one thing that stays true her whole life, it's that she's nothing if not stubborn. She travels during the day, when it's less likely she'll run into the various types of nasty wildlife Orsterra has to offer. She buys rations at the next town she comes across and tries to pace herself. She slogs through the snow in the Frostlands with the hood of her cloak pulled up as far as it'll go. She gets used to sleeping on the ground. She gets used to aching feet. She gets used to hunger. She gets used to cold.  
  
Her father always said that, as an Azelhart, faith would be her shield. She tries her best to keep faith, but faith doesn't make a very good umbrella.  
  
The dense foliage of the Woodlands is a welcome reprieve from the relentless snow and head-spinning altitude— though the forest comes with its own set of problems. She gets turned around on the faint pathways obscured with animal tracks and pine needles and fallen autumn leaves, around tree after identical tree. She ends up in Duskbarrow to the north instead of finding her way south towards the Cliftlands, but at least she doesn't have to face camping out in the woods.  
  
It's late when she makes it into town. The city isn't sprawling, but dense and haphazard, all tall log buildings with steep roofs and small windows lining narrow, winding streets. It's late enough that most people have closed up shop for the night, and the streets are mostly empty. It's not as chilly as the Frostlands, obviously, but Primrose still has to rub warmth back into her hands as she walks.  
  
The next step is to find the inn, which is apparently easier said than done. One would think there'd be a sign, or something, out in plain sight where anyone could see. Either Duskbarrow doesn't have an inn, which seems unlikely, or it's just hard to find. Either way, Prirmose gets very lost very quickly. Fantastic. This is just what she needs after walking through most of the Woodlands.  
  
She hears something like running footsteps, but doesn't think anything of it until the footsteps get louder— more than one person, but Primrose can't tell how many— and closer, and they're joined by the distinctive clomping sound of several sets of thick boots. It's odd, but not odd enough to poke her nose into whatever their business is. She really needs to focus on finding the inn.  
  
As it turns out, she doesn't have a choice.  
  
It happens like this: the closer footsteps get louder, and then there's the sound of smashing pottery. There's a blur of green and purple. Then the impact, and then the ground, rough cobblestone and loose dirt. There's uncomfortable wiggling on top of her, and then there's no more weight. Then it starts hurting. When the world comes back into focus, she's surrounded by city guards.  
  
"Bloody hells," someone groans. Then, "Aw, well, shit."  
  
She pushes herself up on her elbows and blinks the stars from her eyes. There's a scowling city guard staring straight at her.  
  
He sneers. "Another rat," he says. "Looks like we've caught the whole pack."  
  
The figure next to her holds up his hands. He's a boy, maybe sixteen, with stringy red hair and a shabby green jacket. The other figure that crashed into her is a younger boy, maybe twelve. He peels his face off the cobblestone, shakes his head, and pushes himself upright. He has messy white hair, a purple cloak far too big for him, and a nosebleed.  
  
"Aw, c'mon, gents, we can settle this like big boys, eh?" the older boy says. "Gordo, me mate—"  
  
"Quiet, thief," the guard hisses. "All of you, up. I'm not interested in negotiating with a bunch of urchins. I warned you once, and you didn't listen. The goods you stole from that butcher shop are now forefit, and the lot of you will come quietly if you value your hides."  
  
A boot prods at her side. Primrose stands, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. There are five guards, which seems like a lot for two scrawny kids. She looks from the guards to the thieves and makes what is probably a very bad decision.  
  
" _Excuse_ me," she says sharply, planting her hands firmly on her hips. "But I come _all_ the way to Duskbarrow to visit my dear uncle, and _this_ is the treatment I get? _Completely_ unbelievable! What are all your names? I'm going to report all of you to the Governor at once."  
  
The guard in charge, presumably Gordo, blinks. "Report? Who do you think you are?"  
  
"I know _exactly_ who I am!" Primrose replies, pushing past the boys to go toe to toe with Gordo. "And I think you certainly _ought_ to! Just for this audacity, I'm not only going to report this to the Governor, I'm going to make sure my uncle hears _all_ about this, and I think it _extremely_ likely that he will _never_ give Duskbarrow his business again."  
  
Two of the small-fry guards exchange nervous glances. "Hey, sir," one says. "Uh, sir. I think the girl's telling the truth, about her uncle being Mr. Calder."  
  
"That's right," Primrose agrees, like a liar. "At least _someone_ has some brains in his head! But lucky for you, I know my uncle is a very busy man, and he has enough to worry about without me bringing up this awful issue. And so, I'm going to be forgiving, and request that you kindly let me and my friends be on our way. If you do so now, then neither the Governor nor my uncle needs to know."  
  
The guards shuffle nervously. Even Gordo looks a bit concerned. Primrose tosses her hair primly and taps her foot, her hands on her hips. It's not hard to pretend to be a bratty rich girl. A private school education means she's met far too many.  
  
Gordo sighs. "Alright, miss, we'll let you go. But these thieves—"  
  
"What proof have you of them stealing anything?" Primrose cuts him off. "Would I, a _Calder_ , really associate with low-born thieves?"  
  
"She has a point, sir," another subordinate mumbles.  
  
Gordo narrows his eyes. "Well, if you say so, miss," he says. "But d'you mind if I ask you something?"  
  
She shrugs. "I suppose not."  
  
"You're in town visiting your uncle, Mr. Calder, right?" he says.  
  
"I am," she replies firmly.  
  
Gordo clicks his tounge. "Must've been a long walk, all the way from his brother's house in Stillsnow."  
  
"Oh, you have _no_ idea," Primrose says empathetically. "My carriage had _quite_ a bit of trouble in the horrible weather, and of course the rough highway through the woods wasn't easy on its wheels, either. I'm frankly relieved we made it here in one piece."  
  
"I agree, I agree," the guard nods. "You're a lovely storyteller, miss. Very evocative."  
  
She preens. "Why, thank you."  
  
"One thing," Gordo says. "Mr. Calder's brother lives in Orewell."  
  
Primrose falters. "Does he, now?"  
  
Gordo smiles condescendingly. "Learn to get your story straight before the law gets involved, missy. Now hurry up, I don't have all night."  
  
Primrose sputters. "But— but I'm not a thief!" she protests. "The truth is that I'm not related to that rich guy, but my father was the Governor of Noblecourt and—"  
  
"Save it," the guard snaps. "I don't care if you're a thief or not. What you _are_ is a liar and annoying me."  
  
Primrose glares at him. "Well, then, fine, don't believe me," she says. "But Noblecourt won't be happy to hear of this. You'll see."  
  


* * *

  
  
As expected, they do not see, and in the span of ten minutes, Primrose is glaring at the wall of the holding cell with one hand clenched into a fist and the other nursing a black eye. This is not how she'd expected her night to go.  
  
The two thief boys sit against the opposite wall. The older one leans in the corner with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed like he owns the place, while the younger one sits with his hands under his knees, idly wiggling back and fourth.  
  
"It was a good try," he says. "You had me goin' for a while. If he hadn'a asked that question, then I bet we would've gotten off scot-free."  
  
"Well, that didn't happen," she replies. "No use talking about how it could've gone."  
  
The boy shrugs. "Guess so. Thanks for not snitching on us to the guards."  
  
"You're welcome, I guess," Primrose mumbles. "So, are you really thieves?"  
  
The boy nods. "Yup. We're real good at it, too. What are you?"  
  
Primrose blinks. "What?"  
  
"Y'know," the boy says. "Thief, swindler, whore, merc, gambler, forger, beggar, that kinda thing."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "No, no, I'm not— I'm not any of those things. I am a _lady_ , thank you very much."  
  
He snorts. "Sure."  
  
"It's true!" she insists. "Why doesn't anyone believe me?"  
  
"You don't exactly look it, sweetheart," the older boy grunts. He has a point. She's about as scruffy and bedraggled as the other two. Her clothes are nice, but worn-down from traveling, and one who didn't know better could assume she'd stolen them. The fact that the I'm-actually-a-relative-of-an-important-person lie is one of the oldest in the book doesn't help her case. Primrose will admit that he has a point, but she doesn't have to like it.  
  
"Well, if you don't got one of those jobs, you'd better find one pretty soon," the younger boy suggests. "Else you'll have a real hard time making money."  
  
"I have money," Primrose lies.  
  
The older boy quirks an eyebrow.  
  
She sighs. "Well, I _had_ money. I spent most of it on rations when I was in Flamesgrace, and I would've been able to get to Victor's Hollow if I hadn't gotten lost."  
  
The younger boy frowns. "Are you really a real lady?"  
  
Primrose straightens. "Yes, I am. And I could prove it to you if those rude guards hadn't taken my dagger."  
  
"I know a lotta them noble houses, sweetheart," the boy says. "What's your name, then?"  
  
"Primrose Azelhart," she says firmly. "Daughter of Geoffrey Azelhart, former Governor of Noblecourt. The four other main houses of Noblecourt are houses Woodvine, Bailey, Hawktale, and Darkmoor, all of whom hate each other and would have torn each other to shreds if House Azelhart were not keeping the peace, in case you need more proof that I'm not lying."  
  
The older boy nods. "Alright, you know some of it," he admits. "Maybe you're not just pullin' me leg."  
  
"Of course not," Primrose replies. "I'm glad you're finally seeing the truth."  
  
"Hey, what'd you mean, former?" the younger boy asks. He's leaned forwards, his legs crossed and his elbows on his knees.  
  
Primrose hesitates. She almost reaches for her dagger to rub her thumb over the pommel like she's done many times before, but it's not there, so she settles for fiddling with the frayed cuffs of her dress. "He was murdered," she says. "I'm trying to find the people that did it."  
  
The younger boy's eyes widen. "Revenge, huh?" he says.  
  
Primrose nods.  
  
The boy nods. "Cool."  
  
"So, does that answer your question?" Primrose asks, nodding to the older boy. "And might I have the privilege of your names, now? It's only fair."  
  
"I'm Therion," the younger boy says. "That's Darius. We're thieves, but you already knew that. Darius may not look it, but he's actually real smart— hey!" Darius thumps him.  
  
"Seems t'me your little quest's gotten you in quite the spot of trouble," Darius says. "Was this part of the plan, love?"  
  
"Well, I _had_ been on my way to find lodging somewhere," Primrose replies. "Until a few _gentlemen_ came along and got me mixed up in their thieviery."  
  
"Sorry 'bout that," Therion says.  
  
Darius shrugs. "Aye, didn't mean to get you involved. Wrong place, wrong time, I s'pose."  
  
She sighs. "Well, for what it's worth, I know you didn't mean to. So I suppose I'll just have to continue my quest after all this. What's the sentence for thievery in this town?"  
  
Therion shrugs. "Couple months if you're under fourteen. Can't keep littler kids contained for longer or them holy ladies at the chapel will make it a big fuss."  
  
"Not that it matters," Darius adds. "C'mon, love, gimme some credit. I've got a plan."  
  


* * *

  
  
When Darius asked her if she could cry on command, Primrose knew this was not a plan befitting the dignity of an Azelhart. But if it's that or the slammer, really, swallowing her pride for a little bit was a worthy sacrifice.  
  
The guard shift changes at seven, just before dinner. The holding cell is supposed to just be a temporary measure, so there's only one of them, and it's upstairs, in the guard building itself rather than being in a separate facility. There's only one guard because, in general, nobody's stupid enough to break out of the holding cell because they'll run into whole teams of guards. They always stick the recruits with the evening and overnight shifts, which, as Darius explains, will work in their favor. This is how they broke out last time, but with a little bit more challenge because of Primrose's inexperience. But, he adds. They can work with this too, if Primrose is any good at acting.  
  
They wait for the new guard to get settled. When Darius starts to notice the guard shuffling in his complete boredom, looking at random objects in the room to try and bring interest to the shift, he nods to Primrose.  
  
Primrose fakes a whimper, which isn't that hard. She curls in on herself against the wall, clutching her stomach. The guard looks up, but he coughs and straightens again. He must be very new— he looks like he's only around Darius's age, maybe a little older. This, Darius had explained, will also work in their favor.  
  
She pulls herself over to the barred wall of the holding cell. "Sir," she whines, sounding appropriately pathetic. "Please, sir, I feel sick."  
  
"You'd better take her to the latrine or something," Therion says helpfully. "Woudn't want her to puke in here while you're s'posed to be in charge, yeah?"  
  
The guard frowns. "I'm— uh— I'm not supposed to open the cell door for any reason. You're convicted thieves."  
  
Primrose sniffles. "Oh, my stomach hurts," she whines. "I'm gonna be sick…"  
  
"Well, do it over there, then!" Therion says, scooting away.  
  
Darius scoffs and shoots a glance to the guard. "Your bosses ain't gonna be happy if a kid loses 'er dinner in here, are they? And I betcha you don't wanna clean it up."  
  
The guard stands. "Okay, okay, just—" he fumbles for the keys on the desk. "Try to hold it in for a little longer, and neither of you try any funny business." Darius grins cheesily and gives him a salute that, if Primrose didn't already know the plan, would make her certain that they absolutely would try funny business, and would be very successful.  
  
He hurries over to the cell door and unlocks it with his shaky hands, then stuffs the key back into his pocket. He crouches and hauls Primrose up by her arm. She makes sure to stumble and clutch his uniform jacket to really sell it.  
  
"Please don't throw up, please don't throw up," the guard mutters, probably praying, as he power-walks Primrose across a courtyard to a low stone building. There's a well in the center, roped off with a sign that says _OFF LIMITS DUE TO RECENT FROGGEN ACTIVITY. USE SOUTH QUADRANT WELL UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE._ Primrose notes this with satisfaction. Just like Darius said it would be.  
  
The guard pushes her into one of the stalls, which is, as one would expect, quite nasty. "Alright, you're in, just. I don't know. Be quick?"  
  
Primrose sniffles and nods. She crouches on the stone floor, making pathetic noises until she hears a distant crash from back in the room with the holding cell, and the guard outside the stall swears and runs towards the source, assuming Primrose isn't going anywhere anytime soon.  
  
Well, more fool him. Primrose waits until she's certain he's gone, then scoots through the gap between the door and the stones. She scans the courtyard quickly, then darts across, under the ropes, and over the side of the well, clinging to the stones.  
  
It hurts, and she can't get a very good grip on the mortar lines. Books always made this seem much easier than it actually is. But Primrose grits her teeth, steels her stomach, and slowly wiggles her way down the sides of the well, until she can hop off and land on her hands and knees in a shallow puddle at the bottom. She hears commotion above. There's a tunnel in the rock with a trickle of water flowing through it. It's the tunnel that Darius mentioned— this is where they're supposed to meet up. Primrose ducks inside and leans against the wall.  
  
There is a lot going on here that a noble upbringing understandably did not prepare her for. She's trying not to think about it, and is instead playing _Children of Orsa_ on repeat in her head like Sunday school but it's in hell. She never thought she'd be thankful for how damnably memorable songs for five-year-olds are.  
  
Therion drops to the bottom of the well with a splash. He turns the impact into a roll and comes up standing next to Primrose. "Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey," she replies.  
  
"Here's your stuff," he says, tossing her her bag. Primrose rummages through it and notes with satisfaction that everything is still there, including her dagger. She tucks it back into her belt, where it belongs. Now she feels better.  
  
Darius drops into the well and wastes no time getting back up and hurrying into the tunnel. "Shake a leg, lads," he ordered. "Diversion won't last for long, and no one's gonna be happy when they find out we flew the coop."  
  
"Ooh!" Therion looks way too excited for a conversation being held while running through a gross well tunnel. "Did you use the stink bombs?"  
  
Darius grins. "Worked like a charm, mate," he says.  
  
Therion pumps his fist in victory. "The Dusk Riders strike again!"  
  
Primrose doesn't have time to reflect on that. The tunnel comes out in a cave just outside the city. She breathes, shakes the mud off her boots, and watches as Darius holds up three fingers. Then two. Then one.  
  
Alarm bells start ringing from the guard base. Darius's face splits into a grin. He holds up his hand. Therion smacks it.  
  
"Bastards didn't know what hit 'em," Darius says. "Reckon it'll be quite some time before they think to search outside the city— plenty of time for us to split. What'd ye think, mate, Victor's Hollow or Northreach?"  
  
"Definitely Northreach," Therion says.  
  
"Victor's Hollow it is."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Anyways," Darius continues, clapping his hands together. "Apologies for the lack of formal introduction, love, but you understand we were a lil' busy."  
  
Primrose nods. She shifts a little, holding her bag closer to herself. "Understandable, yes. Why were you running?"  
  
"Stole a buncha gold," Therion says nonchalantly, holding up a coin pouch. "You do what you have to."  
  
Primrose doesn't really know how to respond to that. "Okay," she says.  
  
"Aw, no need to look so tense," Darius says. "You're gonna do fine for yourself. Reckon you'd make a fine tea leaf if you set your mind to it."  
  
She opens her mouth to say I wouldn't do that, stealing is wrong, and then realizes that that's probably not the best thing to say to a pair of thieves. Then something occurs to her— criminals have a network, don't they? Maybe this is the opportunity she's been waiting for.  
  
"So, um, thank you for breaking me out of there with you, but," Primrose says. "I have a question to ask. I'm looking for somebody, and I'm pretty sure he's a criminal. You talk to other criminals, right? If I became a thief, could I find him quicker?"  
  
"Darius knows criminals," Therion says. "I know a couple, too, but we fell out of contact when Spikey's pickpocketing ring got busted."  
  
"Spikey was barely a criminal and you know it," Darius scoffs. "He _deserved_ to get busted. But, yeah, I s'pose you could find your man quicker if you found the business he dealt in. D'you have a name?"  
  
Primrose nods. She rummages in her bag for her clue— her only clue. She pulls out a ratty scrap of paper, which she thinks might be a stub of a reciept for something. Most of the words are faded and unreadable, but she can make out the signature of someone named Helgenish. She hands the paper over to Darius, and he squints at it. Therion leans over his shoulder to peer at it.  
  
"Never heard of a Helgenish," Darius shrugs. "But he seems like a real fancy kinda bloke, with handwriting like that. Prolly a boss in something swanky. Smuggling, maybe, or forgery. If my hunch is right, then he'll be easy enough to track down."  
  
"Oh, that's good," Primrose says. She takes the paper back. "Well, then, I suppose this is where we part ways. I have to learn how to pick pockets."  
  
"Hey, why don't we just teach you?" Therion suggests. "Learnin' on your own is really dangerous, and most thieves are awful, shitty people. But you already know us, and we're less awful, shitty people!"  
  
"That is true," Primrose admits.  
  
Darius rubs his chin. "Yeah," he says, nodding slowly. "Yeah, we can make you a real thief. You've got potential— not for pickpocketing, though, that'd be a waste of your talents. Nah, nah, you'd do well in the con field."  
  
"I would?" Primrose asks.  
  
"Yeah, 'course," Darius says. "You learn how to read people, talk and act in just the right way, and you won't even have to pick their pockets 'cause they'll give you whatever you want. There's a _technique_ , y'see. Now, I'm hardly as pretty as you— s'why I pick pockets and not people— but I know a thing or two about how to get a man wrapped right 'round your little finger."  
  
Primrose's eyes widen. "Just like that? And that's how I could get close to where Helgenish is?"  
  
"You can get wherever you like if you get good at _this_ , love," Darius says, grinning. "C'mon, then. Welcome aboard."  
  
Therion's face lights up. "Alright! I'm gonna teach you so much stuff! I know Darius said you're not gonna be a pickpocket per say, but it can't hurt to learn how, will it? And anyway, I'm real glad to have someone other than Darius to talk to. It's awful tiring being the smart one."  
  
Darius thumps him. "Keep tellin' yourself that, mate. Now, Primrose, was it?"  
  
Primrose nods. "Primrose Azelhart," she says. She pauses. "I suppose if we were back in Noblecourt and my father were still around, then the proper form of address would be Miss Azelhart, but I don't think that really applies."  
  
"Well, either way, Miss Primrose Azelhart," Darius says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I think this is gonna work out just fine for all three of us."


End file.
